Keedy smacked the table. ‘He was that Irish lad caught planting a bomb.’
‘And where was he arrested?’
‘Remind me.’
‘It was somewhere perilously close to where we’re now sitting.’
‘Is that why Chat is getting so excited?’
‘He discovered an interesting fact,’ said Marmion. ‘It seems that the Irish nationalist has a definite connection with this area. He’s Eamonn Quinn’s nephew.’
‘So what? He was arrested and sent to prison. Niall Quinn is behind bars.’
‘Not any more, I’m afraid. He escaped last week. Chat has been putting two and two together. A known bomber is at liberty and Maureen Quinn, a relation of his, is the only person to escape from an explosion that he might, or might not, have engineered. Was it chance or design?’
‘I haven’t a clue. What are we supposed to do?’
‘We have to look into it immediately so just pray that the car’s been repaired.’
‘Where are we going, Harv?’
Marmion grinned. ‘We’re off to a whisky distillery in Wales.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The pain would not go away. It had subsided to a dull ache but it was always there. The only way that Neil Beresford could cope with it was to throw himself wholeheartedly into frenetic activity. His mother was amazed when he started to clean the house and do a range of odd jobs that he’d hitherto postponed. For the first time she could remember, he even worked in the garden with enthusiasm. His bursts of energy provided a distraction without actually curing the underlying condition. Anguish pulsed away inside his brain, giving him a permanent headache. While the death of his wife might have weakened the football team he’d so lovingly created and coached, he was determined that it wouldn’t falter completely. Thanks largely to the brilliance of Shirley Beresford, they’d reached the cup final. It fell to the remaining members of the team to end the season on a note of triumph.
Beset as he was with worries about the inquest and the funeral, Beresford never lost sight of the importance of the cup final. When he ran out of things to do at home, therefore, he walked to the factory with a football under his arm. Recognised at the gate, he was allowed in and given some words of commiseration. He strolled out to the pitch on which so many training sessions and games had been played. His overriding memory was of the goals that his wife had scored there. Dropping the ball to the ground, he dribbled it the length of the pitch then smashed it past an invisible goalkeeper. Beresford reclaimed the ball from the net and set it on the penalty spot. He did exactly what his wife had been taught to do and aimed for the top right-hand corner of the goal. It left the invisible goalkeeper hopelessly stranded. He was taking his third penalty when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone coming towards him. Beresford broke off and turned to face the newcomer.
He was slightly alarmed when he saw Bernard Kennett, assuming that the works manager had come to scold him on the grounds that, if he was able to play football, he was fit enough to return to his job. In fact, Kennett gave him a welcoming smile tinged with sadness.
‘I saw you walk past my window,’ he said, ‘and guessed that you might be coming here. You have my deepest sympathies, Neil. I was shocked to learn of the death of your wife. Football meant so much to the pair of you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Beresford. ‘Shirley was a wonderful all-round athlete but this was the sport at which she excelled.’
‘Between you and your wife, you put Hayes Ladies’ Team on the map.’
‘It wasn’t only down to us, Mr Kennett. There were ten other players ready to give blood for the team. Shirley couldn’t have scored goals if she hadn’t been given a steady supply of the ball.’
‘There’s a rumour that we may yet take part in the cup final.’
‘We’ll do more than take part, sir — we’ll win the game!’
Beresford’s conviction was absolute. His single-mindedness was inspiring. With huge numbers working in the Cartridge Section, Kennett could only know the bulk of them by sight. Neil Beresford was an exception. Because of what he’d done for the reputation of the factory, he was a familiar figure there. Kennett had often spoken to him and they were on friendly terms.
‘I had a phone call from Inspector Marmion,’ said the works manager. ‘He told me that they’ve identified a prime suspect.’
‘I know,’ said Beresford. ‘I was at Mr Jenks’s house when the inspector arrived. It was good of him to show us such consideration.’
‘It was reassuring to hear that a culprit had been tracked down but, I must admit, that I’d rather he didn’t work here. If this Herbert Wylie really
‘The police have to catch him first.’
‘Inspector Marmion and Sergeant Keedy are both very able.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Beresford, ‘but Wylie would have had a head start on them. Arranging that explosion would have taken a lot of forethought so he’s obviously a calculating man. That means he’d have planned his escape well in advance.’
‘There’s nowhere for him to hide. Police forces all over the country will have been put on the alert. There’s a full-scale manhunt for Wylie.’
‘I still think he’ll prove elusive.’
‘They’ll catch him somehow.’
‘What if he’s gone abroad?’
‘Then they’ll go after him,’ said Kennett. ‘Nothing daunts them. According to Sergeant Keedy, they had two suspects last year who went off to France with their regiment. They were pursued, arrested and brought back to face justice. I have faith in Inspector Marmion and the sergeant. They’ll travel
The driver insisted on going. Even though he’d be committing himself to several hours behind the wheel, he wanted to atone for what he felt was his incompetence. Knowing that there was a mechanical fault with the car, he should have reported it and taken an alternative vehicle from Scotland Yard. Fortunately, the car he’d been driving was easily repaired and he was able to pull up outside the police station just before Marmion and Keedy emerged. Startled by the news that they were going to North Wales, he adjusted quickly and volunteered his services. It meant that the detectives could sit together in the rear of the car and discuss the case.
The journey was long, cold and uncomfortable. It was late March and the wind still had considerable bite. Since there was no source of heating in the car, its three occupants were soon shivering when evening plucked all vestiges of light from the sky. With headlamps giving them only restricted vision of the road ahead, they were reduced to a moderate speed. Keedy had the uneasy feeling that they’d never reach their destination.
‘This is madness!’ he complained. ‘We’re going to the back-of-beyond in a car that could easily run out of petrol.’
‘Orders are orders,’ said Marmion. ‘Every time we find a petrol station, we’ll fill the tank.’
‘Why couldn’t we go tomorrow in broad daylight?’
‘The superintendent can’t wait until tomorrow.’
‘Then it’s Chat who should be freezing his balls off in here and not us. If he wants answers today, let him come and get them. Better still,’ he went on, ‘why not simply ring this place for the relevant details?’
‘He tried that, Joe. What we’re after is classified material. It won’t be given over a telephone with no safeguards in place. If we want it, we go and get it.’
‘What’s the place called?’
‘Frongoch — it’s a former distillery used as a prisoner-of-war camp.’
‘Why does it have to be so remote?’ said Keedy.
‘To make it more difficult for prisoners to escape,’ replied Marmion. ‘If they do get out, they find themselves
